The Last Letter

The door now unaccustomed to being touched creaked as I opened it. I couldn't exactly remember the last time I came to my son's room. The room wasn't covered in dust as one would have expected from one left alone for twenty years, pointing to the fact that his mother perhaps cleaned it regularly. Maybe she was stronger than me, maybe her hands didn't shake on the doorknob, maybe her eyes didn't blur as she entered the room. But the memories must surely be flooding her mind each time too, playing everything frame-by-frame, starting from his birth, going through the joy of his first shaky baby-step that he took. It wasn't like I was not proud of him, I was. I was as proud of him as a father can ever possibly be. But carrying one's son, so young and still just a beautiful kid on his shoulders is not a fate any father deserves and is also not something that heals with time.

His bed was made properly and the sheets looked clean - again the doings of his mother. My legs felt like jelly as my eyes fell on his uniform hanging proudly on the wall over his bed - the one he left the house in, smiling and brave, eyes glistening with purpose and voice filled to the brim with joy, but it wasn't the one in which he came back, for it was too damaged - burnt at places and riddled with bullet holes. The army dressed him in a new, clean, and perfect uniform and the person in it was different too, silent and cold, with eyes that now saw nothing and a face that would never smile again. He had never neglected his parents like he did that day, his mother screamed and cried too, but the son who rushed to her at every minor inconvenience, didn't even look her way.

Standing was not possible for me anymore. My legs buckled as I sat down on his bed—the very bed in which he had grown up, the one in which I had told him countless stories of brave people in history, after which he used to loudly proclaim that he would be on that list one day, too. And he did—he did do it. He was never the kind to set a goal and not achieve it. Even when he lost, he lost on his terms only.

The constant ticking of the clock brought me out of my trance, reminding me of when I was there. We were moving houses, it was just me and my wife for twenty years now and we had finally decided it was time we left the busy loud cities and their lifestyle and shifted to a peaceful countryside house, maybe reconnect with nature in our remaining years of life.

I decided to start packing his things from the cupboard. I tried the best I could to put his clothes in the cardboard box with my shaking hands. But then my gaze fell on a box, kept hidden in the corner of the bottom shelf. It was the same box that had arrived with the heart-wrenching news and consisted of whatever personal belongings he had left behind. I hadn't dared to disturb them for these past twenty years, had left them be, untouched and unbothered - just like the room. But today I opened it, inside it were his everyday items - things that he won't need ever again, and with them was a yellowed envelope that I didn't recognize.

I opened the envelope and took out the letter from inside, the date was that of a few days before he had gallantly lost his life in the war. The letter had dried water-drop marks on it - tears, that were no doubt his mother's, but the letter was addressed to me -

"Dear Papa,

I hope you and Maa are as healthy and proud as always, I am also good - well as good as a soldier fighting a war can be at least. I know I haven't been writing for a long time and I deeply apologize for that. I still miss you both a lot, but I have a duty to do and I cannot back off now - or ever, and I am sure you will understand.

I am writing this letter to let you know that I might not be able to write the next one, for this war is turning uglier and uglier day by day. I have now seen my seniors die, my juniors die and even my friends are dying here. I do not want to say this and I hope this is not true, but we are now fighting a losing battle, the enemies have surrounded us and our backup and supplies have been cut off completely and the truth is that there isn't any visible way out of this.

I do not wish for anything other than you both being proud of me and knowing that in my last moments will be enough. I know you will be there for Maa whenever she breaks and whenever she cries, you will console her and give her strength, I also know that you will be all alone to carry your grief by yourself and that you won't ask anyone for help. But Papa, whatever I am today - and I am proud of the person I've become - is because of you only and I am proud of you for that. I have always loved you and I'll keep loving you till my last breath-"

The letter was longer but I couldn't read anymore, for my vision was now clouded. The letter had gained new tear marks - but this time, not his mother's. I clutched the letter to my chest as it heaved up and down with each sob. The letter never had the chance to get delivered, but it still arrived to the person who it was supposed to reach, even if it was twenty years too late.